


No Pain, No Gain

by youreyestheyglow



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Bondage, M/M, PWP, Smut, marco tops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 04:22:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youreyestheyglow/pseuds/youreyestheyglow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3D maneuver gear is just as good for tying people down as it is for keeping them in the air.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Pain, No Gain

You watch Jean swing around, limbs flowing in controlled motions as he demonstrates his skill with the 3D maneuver gear.

He’s incredible, every movement graceful, deadly, and confident, his face creased in concentration as he flings himself effortlessly across the yard, practically flying.

He lands a few feet away from you and winks at you. “Like the demonstration of my skills, Freckles?”

You grin at him. “I love it.”

He swaggers up to Shadis.

You want to slap him for the way he swings his ass when he walks.

It’s not long before you get back to your room, the rest of the squad agreeing to take a walk and cool off. Someone suggests staying out, taking a break.

You hold your breath.

The squad agrees, one by one.

Jean opts out, saying he’d rather spend more time here than with Eren.

Mikasa glares at him. Eren takes it in stride. He’s probably just as happy to be away from Jean as Jean is to be away from him.

You cite exhaustion as your excuse for staying behind.

They take forever to leave.

Your skin itches.

Your clothes feel too heavy for you.

The maneuver gear that might save your life one day feels too tight, restrictive, clamped around your torso and your limbs, constraining your muscles.

The door shuts behind the last of them.

You turn to face Jean.

He’s already halfway out of his gear.

Jean’s body is incredibly beautiful, toned and healthy and warm, smaller and lighter than yours, and when you wrap your arms around it, it resists you – it doesn’t actively push back against you, but it resists your intrusion, holding strong against your fingers as you press them into his back. His lips are the same, rough and firm against yours, but they actively resist you, pressing back against yours, trying to take some form of control from you.

But you’re not in training, not right now.

Right now, no one else is around, and you sigh against Jean’s mouth as you relax, unbuckling your gear and pulling it apart.

You pull away from him.

His lips follow yours back for a moment, but he lets them leave, taking advantage of the separation to pull off the last of his clothing.

He untangles the 3D gear from his clothing and begins strapping himself back in.

You take it from him. “Can I do it?”

His cheeks flush. “Hell yes.”

You begin strapping him in, starting at his legs and working upwards, pulling the buckles tight, tracing the leather with your tongue, licking along his calves and thighs, mouthing at his inner thighs where experience tells you he’s sensitive.

None of the straps go over his stomach, but you spend time there anyway, feeling his stomach muscles quivering against your lips and beneath your fingers. The little twitches that you can cause with little more than the brush of your fingers over his muscles, the flick of your tongue over his nipple, the sigh of your breath against his skin – they propel him across wide-open spaces, give him wings, give him freedom. His body is powerful, and he uses it as a weapon.

But not against you.

He doesn’t need a weapon when he’s with you, alone like this.

When he’s with you, he drops his guard, allows himself to concentrate on feelings instead of ignoring them for the sake of his own survival.

He’s never said that.

He doesn’t have to.

You do the same thing, even if you’re not generally mean about it.

But you, like him, want – _need_ – to feel things, physical things, without worrying about the effect they’d have on your life, without worrying that they’d get you killed.

 So you finish strapping him in, buckling the straps behind his back, using the chest strap to drag him into bed – not that it’s necessary, of course. He follows you willingly, smirking at you, and you can’t help but grin back – he’s always so arrogant, so confident, calling you by your nickname in front of people who don’t know you’re dating, swaggering around like he’s untouchable.

But not for you.

No, not for you.

He lets you wipe away his smirk with his tongue, lets you tie a piece of your 3D gear around his wrists and tie them to the bed, lets you use your gear to tie his knees to the strap across his chest, effectively forcing his ass into the air. You make sure that the leather brushes over his nipples – he likes that. He shows it, too, arching his back and pressing his nipples into the leather, although he doesn’t make any noise.

He never does.

You cup his ass with your hands, marveling at its shape, its musculature, and the fact that Jean is trusting you with it.

You resolve not to abuse his trust.

You slide one hand between his legs to cup his balls and slide the other hand to the strap that goes across his back, tugging at it, pulling him backwards. His arms stretch, and he ducks his head, pushing his face into the pillow. You slide your hand down his back, curving your fingers to let your nails scrape his skin, smiling a little when he fails to make noise.

He’s so stubborn.

You remove your hand from his balls, place each hand on either side of his body, and rake your nails downward, leaving red marks down his ribs.

He jolts, but doesn’t make any noise.

You smile and give him a break, spreading his perfect ass so you can lick straight down the middle, brushing over his tight entrance and then going back to it, drawing lazy circles around the rim, watching the muscles in his back twitch and jump for a few minutes before you pull your tongue away.

You hear his breath hitch, like he’s going to say something, but he holds it back, turning his fingers into claws instead, scratching at the leather connecting them to the bed.

You rest your chin on his ass, watching his back rise and fall, studying the way his shoulders move with his unsteady breath and the way his hands flex and wrap around the leather strap.

You pick your face up.

Jean stills.

You caress his ass.

You slap it.

His entire body jolts, but he doesn’t make any noise.

You kiss the place you hit, and hit it again.

His toes curl and his feet flex, but you don’t even hear a moan.

You rub his smooth, red skin, and slap it again.

You hear the slightest hint of a grunt.

You grin.

Stubborn, but not unbreakable.

You reward him for it, spreading his ass again and pressing your tongue inside him, feeling him contract around you.

You pull out after a moment or two, roving over his ass and lower back, nipping wherever your mouth sends the most shudders over his body.

You can hear his heavy breathing, but that doesn’t count. You can hear that any time. All the time, actually – he tends to breathe pretty hard after an intense training session. You don’t _want_ to make him breathe hard. You want to make him _scream_.

In your dreams, he screams your name when he cums.

He’s never done it before, though.

You spank him, three times in quick succession, watching his body clench and shake.

He makes no noise.

You place one hand flat on his upper back between his shoulder blades and reach the other hand between his legs, grabbing one of the straps that holds his knees in place, and pull, rubbing the rough leather against his nipples, feeling his muscles contract and twitch, feeling his ass shift against your body.

Jean won’t make noise.

You need to hear him, you need to hear his voice, need to hear you’re doing all right. And his voice is so beautiful, how dare he keep it to himself?

You spank him, over and over again, until your handprint is clear against his heated red skin and his body is so tense he’s stopped jumping.

You kiss it, lick it, soothe it, slipping a hand around his legs to stroke his rock-hard cock and slipping a lube-coated finger inside his ass – just the fingertip, nothing big, nothing that would stretch him out too much.

Hopefully, just enough to make him beg.

You press one finger against the underside of his cock and run it up to the tip, circling the head of his cock.

You hear him inhale sharply.

It’s not enough.

You push your finger inside him a little more, hoping for something – a moan, even a gasp – but you get nothing.

You shove a second finger inside him, and wince as he tenses. That was too rough, it was mean. You let your fingers sit, rubbing the head of his cock with the other hand, planting kisses on the backs of his thighs and his ass. It’s not something you mind doing; Jean is gorgeous and he tastes like salt and soap and his skin is rough and taut over his muscles and having his entire body at your disposal like this is a gift you don’t get often enough. So you take your time, nipping at his thighs, dragging your teeth across his ass, waiting until he involuntarily pushes back against you to begin moving your fingers inside him, scissoring them and curling them in your search for his prostate, watching his body buck when you find it.

You hit it a few more times.

Jean lets out a long, low, muffled moan.

Oh.

 _Oh_.

You hit it again.

He _whines_.

You move your hand from his cock to your own neglected one, stroking yourself as you revel in the noises he makes when you hit that spot, muffled whines and moans that he can’t suppress or silence with the pillow.

But you can’t stay there forever, much as you’d like to, and you’ve got four fingers in him now; he’s stretched out enough for you, and you want to hear the sound of your hips against his ass.

You regretfully withdraw your fingers from his ass and he goes quiet, except for his labored breathing, the loudest thing you can hear. You slap his ass, and while his back curves like a cat when you make contact with him, he doesn’t make any more noise.

You sigh.

It was nice while it lasted.

You roll on a condom and kneel behind him, spreading his ass and aligning your dick with his hole, wide and dripping lube and waiting for you. You slide inside him, slowly, taking your time, feeling every centimeter of you that enters him, feeling him contract around you, warm and tight.

You grind your hips into his ass and run your hand up his back, scratching around the leather straps, leaving red lines on his skin wherever your hand passes. He arches into your hand, his arms alternately pushing against the bedframe and pulling at the strap holding them there, his hands curled into fists.

You start out slowly, painfully slowly, angling your hips so that your dick brushes past his prostate.

He has it under control, now, unfortunately, and manages to stay silent, although he’s biting the pillow now and his muscles are twitching uncontrollably. You speed up, no longer just brushing his prostate but hitting it, and his body tenses, his toes curling and his hands fisting and going flat as he tries to hold in the noise.

You lean over him, kissing and nipping at his back, biting underneath one shoulder blade and sucking on the mark, licking his neck, biting at the base and sucking on his skin, bruising him where it’ll never be seen by anyone but you – no one else gets the privilege of seeing him like this, ever, no one but you.

You reach one hand underneath him and squeeze your fingers around the base of his cock.

Even with your ear right by his mouth, you can’t hear anything.

His cock is dripping, his ass is clenching around you, his skin is hot and red and bruised, his muscles are tense and clenched, and he’s not making noise, not a sound.

You grab his hair with your free hand and pull his head back, looking at his red, sweaty face, his mouth tightly shut, bottom lip between his teeth, and you kiss under his jaw. “It’s okay, Jean. No one’s here to hear you, no one but me. Please yell. For me?”

You didn’t expect it to work.

But you flick your hand up and down his shaft in one quick movement, and his mouth opens and his eyes close and he _screams_.

“ _Fuck_ fucking _fuck me_ Marco – _Marco_ –”

Your breath hitches.

You bury your face in his neck. “Jean –”

You whip your hand back and forth over his dick, ramming into his ass, moving your mouth down his back, tracing the leather straps with your tongue and teeth, tugging at his hair, listening to the music of his moans and of your name – _your_ name – being moaned and yelled in his beautiful voice, rough and loud and needy.

He screams your name when he cums.

You whisper his into his ear when you explode inside him, using his body as an anchor, his skin against yours, his body in your arms and around you, shaking and limp, supported by you and the leather tying him to the bed.

You plant kisses down his back as you slide out of him, pressing your lips gently to the marks and bruises you left on his skin. You untie his legs and his arms, and he slowly sits up, head down, unresisting as you unbuckle his 3D gear and pull it gently off his body, kissing the places where it rubbed too hard or was pulled too tightly. When it’s all off, you kneel in front of him and kiss his lips, gently, and he slips one hand behind your neck and holds you there against his warm, firm mouth.

“Why do you insist on being quiet?” You ask when you stop to breathe.

He flushes. “It’s embarrassing, screaming like that.”

You smile at him and cup his cheek. “I’m the only one around. And I promise not to tell anyone.”

He doesn’t answer, instead pressing his lips against yours again, sucking on your bottom lip.

“Maybe next time,” he mutters after a few minutes.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

“I’m counting on it.” 


End file.
